


A Good Enough Sport

by sumhowe_sailing



Series: Raffles Week drabbles [1]
Category: Raffles - E. W. Hornung
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:06:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sumhowe_sailing/pseuds/sumhowe_sailing
Summary: A snapshot of Bunny and Raffles. Written for day one of Raffles week on tumblr.





	

If it hadn’t been for the breeze, the sun would have been unbearable. But Raffles, imperturbable as ever, didn’t even seem to notice. He was stretched out on the grass, head propped on his folded arms, eyes closed against the sun, one ankle tucked over the other. He practically glowed that afternoon; the wind tugging at his snow-white curls seemed the only evidence this was not some beautiful, idealized painting. It’s silly, really, how much those small moments affected me even then, even after I’d been at his side so long. But with Raffles, one never quite settles into the way of things–every time you think you’ve grown accustomed to him, he surprises you again. Or maybe that’s the way with every love.

A loud cheer from the players drew my eyes away from him. I had not spared them much thought that day; cricket had been more fun to watch when Raffles had been a part of it. Now and then I dragged him along to watch a match anyway, but not often. Usually I was too nervous about someone recognizing him in his native habitat, as it were. But sometimes, sometimes when he was brooding, when he was distant or distracted, I thought it was worth the risk.

“Do you miss it?” I found myself asking, taking both of us by surprise.

“Mmm?”

“Playing cricket - do you miss it?”

“Bunny, my dear,” he smiled, “cricket is a good enough sport, until you discover another–and then it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

It was an answer I might have seen coming. He’d told me much the same thing often enough, though I didn’t always believe him in earnest. If that were the case, why would simply being in the audience soothe him so much (as it did, though he’d never admit it). Why was he so at ease now, so much happier than I’d seen him all week, if not for the tonic of the familiar sights, sounds, smells? But this was neither the time nor place to press him (if I could ever do so at all)–there were too many people who might overhear too much.

Instead, I unfurled my legs from beneath me and stretched them out, laying back gently and closing my eyes, trying to mirror his easy repose. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t curl up against him here–couldn’t reach for his hand or lay my head upon his chest, as I so loved to do in the privacy of our own home. All I could do was lie close enough that my elbow brushed against his, and enjoy the heat of the day and the sound of the match, which would go on whether we watched or not.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a copy of the book anymore and my memory isn't good enough to let me do anything with details, so if this is blatantly against canon that's why.


End file.
